


Pistol Packin’ Flu-zy

by ThomasNewtieGangster



Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, Family, Family Fluff, Flu, Save them, Sickfic, friends - Freeform, mama Davey, mama Davey to the rescue, they are ill, vomitting does happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 04:40:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15283854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThomasNewtieGangster/pseuds/ThomasNewtieGangster
Summary: Some of the boys come down with a bout of the flu, and they look to Mama Davey to help get them back on their feet. Bonus: In Which Jack Has No Idea What He’s Doing And The Boys Are Barfing





	Pistol Packin’ Flu-zy

**Author's Note:**

> Have some brotherly fluff and woozy Racetrack Higgins.  
> (I posted this as IamMeWhoAreYou14 over at FF.net so please don’t sue thanks)

**Davey Jacobs trotted into Newsy Square, holding Les’s hand.** It was a cold Saturday morning in October, and he could see his breath as he panted from his run. His nose and ears stung from the cold.

Jack spotted them and waved with a grin. Les waved back, then pulled away from his brother and ran up to one of the newer newsboys, an eleven year old named Beanstick. The two kids had already formed a secret handshake, and Beanstick had only been with them for a week. He wasn’t sure why they called him Beanstick.

Davey huffed as he joined the newsboy huddle, rubbing his hands together.  
Despite there being around thirty to forty boys at the square every single morning, Davey could tell when someone was missing. Sometimes he could even tell who it was by name. Another reason one of his nicknames was “Mudda”. “Where’s Specs and Elmer?” he asked.

Crutchie shrugged and wiped his bright red nose with his free hand. “Dunno. They all said they wasn’t feelin’ too good. Said they’d catch up layta.”

Jack scoffed. “They just ain’t wantin’ to tough out dis cold wedda, I bet.”

David breathed into his hands, wishing he could do the same to his ears. “I can see why. If I’d known it’d be this cold, I’da put a hat on.”

“You has a winta hat?” asked Marty, a thin gingerbread boy.

David hesitated. “Yeah.”

The boy looked impressed. “Noice.”

 _That was close_ , Davey thought. Occasionally, kids teased him for having it better off than others, even if it wasn’t that much better. He knew they didn’t really mean anything by it, but it made him feel guilty.

He looked up at the headline chalkboard. _FLU VIRUS MAKES ITS ROUNDS_ , it read. “If they don’t get here soon, they’ll miss the papers,” he commented.

“Serves ‘em right if they does,” Romeo declared loudly, his thin, dark eyes glittering in the early morning sun.

“Yeah,” Racetrack agreed. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I gotta admit, d’ough. I ain’t feelin’ too good myself.”

“Quit complainin’,” Jack teased, popping his ear and darting away.

The bell rang. “Papes for the newsies!”

Mumbling to each other, the boys lined up, slapping down their change and greeting the distribution man, a nice old gentleman named O’Malley. He was far kinder than Weasel had ever been, ringing the circulation bell every day with a genuine grin and always finding something nice to say to the boys. They filed through, scanning the articles and stuffing their papers into their bags. The missing boys never showed up. Davey and Les each took their usual forty. Race took twenty-five. Davey glanced at him as the other boy stuffed the measly bundle of papers into his bag.

“What’s with the twenty-five? You usually get at least fifty,” Davey

“I told you. I ain’t feelin’ good,” the newsboy replied roughly through his cigar. “I just ain’t lookin’ to carry around a bookstore t’day.”

Davey didn’t respond, but he eyed him with concern as the newsies went their separate ways, throwing last-second insults and jabs at each other before running to carry the banner.

* * *

 Racetrack did not sell well that day. Out of the sad twenty-five papers he took, only fourteen of them sold. That was mostly due to the fact that every time he moved, his muscles ached like he’d been run over by a milk carriage, his head swam, and he saw horses. He was sure he had fallen asleep at some point in the day, and his sleeve was stiff and starchy from wiping his nose. Whatever he had this morning had escalated into a full-blown plague, and he hated it.

He stumbled all the way back to the Square, sniffing and coughing and feeling downright miserable. Halfway there, he started to feel nauseated. He groaned and kept walking. As long as he didn’t throw up on his newspapers, he’d be okay. Just sell the papers back, and he could go to sleep and forget that life sucked.

As he neared the gate, Davey walked up, Les following close behind with Beanstick, who was hauling a small red wagon filled with yellow kittens. Race growled. Of course, Davey would be all concerned and start acting a mama bird, again. He glared at him, then burped painfully as a round of nausea swept over him. He saw the other raise his eyebrows. Dang it.

“’Ey, Davey,” Race grumbled. His eleven remaining papers weither on him like they were made of steel.

“Hey,” Davey said suspiciously. He glanced at Race’s paper bag, then up at the carrier. “Bad day?”

“Yeh,” Race gurgled. Davey was turning into a very large, yellow dog before his eyes. “T’day’s been a complete crap-act. Now, ‘scuse me, while I sell back my failure.”

Davey stepped aside and let Race wobble past him. The latter tried, with every aching bone in his body, to keep his head high, but it made his stomach feel like it was tumbling down a hill in a wooden barrel. He felt sweat trickle down his neck, and his face burned. Why were the sky and ground inverted?

Suddenly: “HOW’D YA DO T’DAY, RACE?” Jacks voice boomed in his ears, a large hand slapped him on the shoulder. That was the last straw. Eyes bugging in surprise, Race fell to his knees and hurled his meager breakfast across the pavement.

Jack stood in mild shock as his friend emptied his gut at his feet. He looked his hand.

“Damn. I didn’t mean to hit him dat hard.”

Race moaned. Everything was swimming in circles, including that flock of blue sheep over there in the sky. His nose and throat burned and everything ached. He saw his cigar amid the regurgitated breakfast. Waste of a good cigar. He wiped his mouth and shakily stood up. He burped and made a face. He felt for his papers: they were dry.

“Thank God,” he mumbled. “Hey, Jack. There’s a six-legged horse standin’ behind ya.” He stumbled toward O’Malley, determined to get his money back before the pack of rabid butterflies behind him got to him. Something — presumably the butterflies — grabbed his arm and he spun around weakly, raising his fists. However, in his state, they would have been about as much help as getting his left foot caught in a bear trap. Through his fuzzy vision he saw Jack, equipped with a pink mustache and solid gold monocle, gripping his arm.

“Uh-uh, Race. You’re coming with me.”

Race felt his heavy bag lifted from his shoulders. “’Ey, ‘ey, ‘ey, das mine…”

“Not anymore it ain’t. Davey’ll take care’ve it.”

Race saw Davey give him a “I told you so” look as he was slung over Jack’s shoulders. He glared at him drunkenly. “I betta get me money,” he slurred.

“You will,” Davey said as he sat astride a blazing white unicorn. “I’ll drop by with it later.”

“A’right, sick-boy, let’s getcha home.”

Race burped.

“If you t’row up on me, I’ma chuck ya into a gutta.”

* * *

 Davey hopped up the steps of the old Newsboy’s Lodging House, Race’s change jingling in his pocket and a small container of broth in his hands. He had told his mother about Race’s condition and she had insisted on sending him with some of her “Chicken Ale”. Street lamps illuminated his steaming breath; it was dark, and much colder than it had been that morning. He was bundled in gloves and a jacket, but he wished he had an ear hat. He could feel ice crystals forming in his nose and on his eyelashes. He sniffled and entered.

Kloppman looked up from behind the reception counter. He set aside the book he’d been reading and adjusted his glasses.

“David!” he said. “What can I help ya with, m’boy?”

“Good evenin’, Mr. Kloppman,” Davey said politely. “I’m looking for Jack. Is he here?”

“I believe he is. Gimme a moment.” He grabbed a broomstick and jabbed the ceiling with it. Davey flinched. “Jack!” the old man shouted as dust came snowing down. “David’s here to see ya!”

Immediately, loud, tumbling steps were heard, and Jack staggered into view, looking disheveled and rather panicked.

“There he is,” Kloppman confirmed. He turned around and sneezed, returning the broomstick to its corner and returning his nose to its book.

“Jack?” Davey blinked. “What–?”

Jack grabbed his jacket. “I needja help.”

“Is he really bad?” Davey asked, worry etching itself across his face. “He’s probably got the flu. I’ve heard it’s been going around.”

“Oh, it’s goin’ around all right,” Jack said dryly. “Dey all got it.”

“Whadaya mean?” Davey asked, becoming more and more confused and concerned.

“Specs, Elmer, Race. Dutchy. All of ‘em.”

“Can you please elaborate?!” Davey demanded in exasperation.

“Dey’re heavin’ all ova the place!” Jack said loudly. “Race and Specs feel like they’s burnin’ up.”

“Where are they?”

“Upstairs.”

“Come on,” Davey said quickly, and he darted up the steps, still clutching the broth. He busted into the dormitory, panting and still very cold. He looked around.

Specs was sprawled across a top bunk, wrapped loosely in sheets, muttering to himself. His glasses were on upside-down, and he was covered in sweat. Elmer was sitting in a corner with his arm curled around an old bucket, his curl-framed face pale and slick. Dutchy lay on his stomach, conscious, but clearly wishing he wasn’t. Every other second his face would contort with pain. Race was laying on the bunk below Specs, sleeping restlessly, his hair sticking to his forehead as he twitched. Crutchie hobbled into the room, carrying another bucket and a pair of wet rags. He saw Davey and his tired face lit up.

“Yer here!” he said, sounding relieved. He looked like he might vomit into a bucket himself. “Das good, ‘cuz I don’t know what I’m doin’.”

Jack shifted anxiously behind Davey. “Kloppman ain’t no docta, and I don’t wanna botha him. But I ain’t no docta eitha.”

Davey stared at the sick-house before him, his jaw setting in disgusted helplessness; the face you make when you’re too polite to say no to a favor, but not polite enough to do it with a smile. He had no idea what to say or do. He wasn’t sure if Jack was aware of this, but he wasn’t exactly a “docta” either. He had never even considered being one. He helped people by using his brain and his words. He didn’t know how to heal people. When he got sick, his mother took care of him. His mother definitely wasn’t here now.

He couldn’t say no. He owed it to them. He was lucky — no. He was blessed in that he had a mother to look after them. They didn’t. They just had Kloppman... and _Jack_.

He looked down at the tiny container of broth in his hands and back at the sickly brood. Well, he wasn’t a doctor, and he wasn’t his mother, but he was better than what they currently had.

Another boy coughed across the room. _Another one bites the dust._

“I’m gonna need more broth.”

* * *

 Racetrack awoke to the sound of coughing. He blinked the grogginess from his eyes, but the room still swam. He pushed himself up on his elbows. He grunted. The aching. Everything that could possibly ache, _did_. He moaned and lay back down. Had he been on a mattress earlier? He could have sworn he had fallen asleep on the floor. Oh, wait. That had been a dream.

A dark haired figure walked toward him, carrying a silver bucket. He squinted.

“Mama?”

The figure stooped and pulled something out of the bucket and draped it across his forehead. It was freezing cold and raised goosebumps on his arms.

“Be quiet, Race. I’m not your ma.”

Race frowned. That was rude. “No, ya not. My ma weren’t no  _jerk_.”

“Race, go back to sleep. Please.”

“I’ll do whateva the heck I want,” he slurred testily. Wow. The world was spinning faster than the teacup ride at Coney Island. “Did Davey bring me money yet?”

“Yes. Go to sleep.”

“Tell Davey I says thank ya.”

“Sure.”

* * *

 Davey slumped into a chair and rested his head in his hands. He groaned. It was nearly 10:00 at night, and here he was, playing nurse to a group of delirious teenagers. The broth had gone over well, and had also been heaved back up within ten minutes of consumption.

Specs’ fever had broken, but had then returned with a vengeance. Elmer had avoided the fever so far, but couldn’t even hold water down. Dutchy had finally fallen asleep, and even as he snored loudly he looked happy to be out. Race’s fever was still up, and he kept talking in his sleep, occasionally using rather strong language. Marty, who had made enough change that day to stay at the lodging house, was also showing signs of illness, coughing and sniffling loudly.

Davey sighed. Jack, Crutchie, and he had tried their bests to make the boys comfy. They had retrieved extra sheets from Kloppman, opened a window to let cool air in, gotten wet rags to cool them down, and had stripped them of their sweat-drenched shirts, but it didn’t seem to be helping. Davey had told the other boys who weren’t sick to stay away, to stay clear of any germs. To be honest, he didn’t know if that would help. In fact, he didn’t have a clue what he was doing, and he was positive that he’d catch the flu and end up sick right alongside the others. Since when was he the mother of this group?

Shuffling behind him; he turned around. Race stood there, looking like he’d been soaking in a barrel of gin and then wrung out and left to dry over an open fire. His eyes were glassy and his face was red. He held the rag Davey had given him earlier. Davey looked at him.

“Yes?” he asked patiently.

Race gulped. “I threw up, Ma.”

“I’m not your ma, Race,” Davey said, trying not to sound snippy. “Did you at least do it into the bucket?”

“I tried, but it kept runnin’ away.”

Davey tried to not to punch himself in the face, and stood up. “That’s unfortunate.” 

“Can I have a cigar?”

“Absolutely not.”

He led Race back to his bed and cleaned up the floor where he had vomited. Turns out, the bucket _had_ been running. Race had knocked it over and it had rolled away. At least he hadn’t vomited on his bed. He replaced the cloth on Race’s head and then went to check the others. Specs was sound asleep, and his fever was lower, but he wasn’t out of the woods yet. Elmer had fallen asleep with his head in his empty bucket, and now his amplified snores were echoing into the room. Dutchy’s own snoring had subsided, but he was now hanging so far off his bunk that Davey was sure he’d fall any second and break his nose.

Davey had just finished ringing out the old rags when Jack came in, carrying a sleeping Crutchie in his arms.

“He’s real warm,” Jack reported, sounding lethargic. “And he didn’t wake up when I poked him in de face.”

Davey sighed again. This was his life now. He wanted to hit his head against a brick wall until he knocked himself out. “Set him on his bunk. I’ll go get some extra sheets.”

It was coming up on 10:45 now. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

 Racetrack woke up to the sound of hammering and sawing. His father’s carpentry shop? Oh. Never mind. He was just coughing. 

He lay there, staring at the ceiling, then realized he actually felt much better. The aching had almost entirely gone away, and he didn’t feel like throwing up. It was really warm, too. He still felt clammy, however, and the ceiling had changed. He squinted, trying to push through the flu brain and get it to look normal. It didn’t, and then he noticed he was laying in front of a fireplace. 

Hold up. There wasn’t a fireplace in the penthouse. At least not upstairs.

He sat up — too quick. Head rush. He looked around. He was lying on the floor, rolled in blankets. To his right was Elmer, sat at the edge of a bed, still holding his bucket, but looking happier. Specs was leaning up against the foot of a second bed off to the left, holding a cup of something steamy. Crutchie and Dutchy was wrapped in a blanket and curled up on that same bed. _Wow_ , Race thought. That was a really clean bed.

Like, dang, that was a clean bed.

“Whey am I?” he spluttered. 

“The Jacobs’ house. Here, take this. It’ll make your throat feel better.”

A kind-looking, middle-aged woman had suddenly appeared next to him, kneeling down and offering a cup of something hot. He stared at her in awe and carefully took the cup.

“How in…?”

“David brought you here,” the woman said. “I’m his mother.”

“Oh.” So that was Mouth’s ma. “Thank ya, lady.” 

“Anything for David’s friends,” she said, and she swished away in a ruffle of skirts. 

Race sipped gently at the liquid: it was tea, but with liquor in it. Nice. 

He looked around the room and saw Davey walk in with Jack in tow. Davey pointed to the floor in the living room.

“Sit.”

Jack obediently walked over to the bed Crutchie and Dutchy were curled up on and sat down in front of it next to Specs, looking completely exhausted, and very sick. Davey grabbed a blanket and threw it at him, then collapsed into a chair at the dining table, laying his head down and apparently passing out.

Race sipped his liquor-tea, stopping to wipe his nose. His feet were warm, and he was drinking hot whiskey. What a fine life.

David crashed at the kitchen table as soon as he set Jack (who had, of course, fallen ill) up in the living room. He had been awake for almost twenty hours, and he was completely drained. He was immensely grateful that his mother had agreed to take care of the boys. He had been worried he would kill them by accident while trying to get them better. He and Jack had borrowed Mr. Kloppman’s wagon and had managed to get all the boys back to his place and get them settled. Then his mother had worked her magic. Davey was positive he was going to wake up from his slumber with a spinning head and a bucketful of vomit, but at least for little while, he could just sleep.

What a day.


End file.
